


As Kingfishers Catch Fire (The On Call Remix)

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Depression, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Remix, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Victorian England, wealthy taste maker Arthur Pendragon strikes up a friendship with talented and offbeat writer Merlin Emrys. But Arthur is at a loss to help when Merlin's life starts to fall apart around him, especially in the era of a love that dares not speak its name...</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Kingfishers Catch Fire (The On Call Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgentSleeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentSleeper/gifts).
  * Inspired by [On Call (when your heart won't answer)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156031) by [ArgentSleeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentSleeper/pseuds/ArgentSleeper). 



> ArgentSleeper, your fics were so wonderful I had trouble choosing just one! Truly an embarrassment of riches. But this fic really spoke to me and I hope you like this late Victorian remix of your beautiful work.
> 
> Thank you so much to the lovely mods for their infinite patience! Also let me flail in gratitude for my wonderful beta Mushroom who was a cheerleader all the way and gave me many great ideas to use <3
> 
> Warning: this fic contains explicit discussion of an attempted suicide, as well as scenes of suicidal ideation and depression, and period typical attitudes to mental health and homosexuality. Title taken from [this](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44389) poem.

Arthur Pendragon first met Merlin Emrys when the latter spilt port on Arthur’s trousers and then trod on his foot in his haste to apologise.

The occasion was one of the regular soirees Arthur threw at his home in Bloomsbury to bring together the premier talents of the London literary set. Clearly this clumsy oaf had crept in the back somehow and Arthur lost no time in telling him so.

A heated argument followed in which Arthur learned that the man’s name was Merlin, that he had recently published his first novel, and that he thought Arthur was the most disagreeable person in all of London. Thoroughly disgruntled at this point, Arthur challenged the man to share his new novel if he dared expose himself to honest criticism.

Two days later, a slim volume was delivered to Arthur’s house. Three days later Arthur was cursing his own impetuous tongue. The novel – a sharp yet poignant satire of country manners entitled Lord Ashwin’s Garden Party – was, quite simply, brilliant. This Merlin wrote with a deftness of touch that was as impressive as it was rare.

Never one to put his pride before a good literary find, Arthur called at Merlin’s lodgings the very next day. Merlin’s belligerence turned to abashed pleasure in the face of Arthur’s sincere praise. He practically glowed when Arthur promised to put him in touch with a patron who would help support his future endeavours. And thus, from an inauspicious first meeting, a firm friendship began.

Over the next eight months, Arthur met Merlin almost every week. At first they discussed only literary matters, as time went on their topics of conversation expanded considerably. Arthur was a little shocked to realise he had begun to count Merlin amongst his closest friends, even after such a short period of acquaintance. There was just something undeniably appealing about the other man. Merlin was clever and witty but he could engage in serious discussion too. His knowledge of the arts and philosophy was prodigious – all the more impressive considering Merlin had never attended university and seemed to be something of an auto-didact.

He also loved nature and often prevailed upon Arthur to take long walks on the Heath with him; on which Merlin would point out various birds and flora he was familiar with. Arthur found their walks stimulating both physically and mentally. He felt Merlin raised him to a higher intellectual standard, that he saw the world in a way that was both fresh and new to Arthur.

But there was a deeper truth to their growing closeness – one that Arthur was loath to face.

He desired Merlin.

At the age of twenty eight, Arthur had finally made his peace with who he was. His inclinations had many different names and none of them were fit for polite society. None of them were fit for Arthur either; who could not see himself in the bluntness of sodomite or catamite, or in the more euphemistic “Grecian devotee”. Others were harsher; calling his lifestyle a depravity, a sin. Arthur could not agree. He had as much morality in him as the next man. He would never pursue a married person, or force someone against their will, or lie and deceive a paramour. Those were the real crimes in matters of the heart and he was no more inclined to them than any other upstanding citizen. He could not thus see how his preference for his own sex had the stain of sin upon it.

Regardless, he kept his passions hidden from all but few. His loyal friend Gwaine; the odd lover or two from his Oxford days. He suspected his sister Morgana might know the truth but they had never spoken of it. Morgana was a woman living apart from her husband and raising her son alone, however, so the conventions of society meant little to her either. Still Arthur was careful – for he knew the price of getting caught. Assumptions and inklings were manageable in the literary circles he ran in. He had learned that people would be surprisingly tolerant up until the point of proof. At that point they would cast a blind eye no longer and the consequences would be severe.

Arthur would never allow that. He took caution and guarded his privacy. Some days it pained him to think he might never live openly as who he really was but he managed to subsist. He had never met a man for whom he might want to risk it all, and so it was no great trouble to him.

Until now.

Arthur could see himself risking it all for Merlin. He had never met someone so fascinating and intelligent, so compassionate and kind. He brightened up Arthur’s days, to the point where Arthur could no longer remember his life before Merlin came into it.

He was beautiful too. Plump pink lips and hazy blue eyes; fair of skin and lithe of frame. He had a fey delicacy about him that reminded Arthur of some other-worldly being from a poem, one of Shakespeare’s sprites or Spenser’s faeries. In short, he was quite lovely.

Arthur thought of kissing him often. When Merlin stuck out his tongue in concentration, when he turned his face to the sun on the Heath and laughed to see the swallows skim across the ponds.

But he did not know if Merlin was one of his kind and so to kiss him was dangerous.

Gwaine claimed there could be no doubt.

“It’s a book of secrets!” he exclaimed one night, Lord Ashwin’s Garden Party clutched in his hand. “Lady Ashwin’s hidden cupboards. The children’s treehouse. Even the cave that Dora hides in! I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, Arthur – you recognise the code better than I do. Didn’t you say he loves Whitman too? What more do you need?”  

Arthur longed to be so sure. And yet in a funny way, he did believe it to be true. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part but some instinct deep within told him that he was right. Merlin was just like him. And if on a walk one day Arthur were to reach out his arm, a part of him knew that Merlin would surely take it.

But cowardice stayed his hand. So Arthur pined from afar and by the time his suspicions were confirmed, he had left it too late.

 

***

 

Morgana was visiting while her son Mordred was at the seaside and she had demanded to be taken to the theatre. Arthur suggested a number of well received productions in the West End but to his consternation Morgana had her heart set on a melodrama playing at a small theatre in Marylebone: The Murder in the Red Barn.

It was rather poorly done in Arthur’s opinion but Morgana was enthralled. She nearly jumped out of her seat when the ill-fated Maria was shot by her wicked lover. Arthur always suspected she had a taste for the macabre.

She was dabbing at her eyes rather affectedly with a handkerchief as they left and Arthur was poised to tease her when he suddenly stopped in mid pace.

Merlin was by the entrance of the theatre with a tall and extremely handsome gentleman, with olive skin and a faintly exotic bearing. They were stood close and as Arthur’s eyes tracked down Merlin’s body, he could see that their hands were just barely touching.

Arthur did his best to pretend that the sinking feeling in his stomach was more concern for Merlin’s boldness than any other emotion. It was a risky game to play in public, and if Merlin was suspected…

But Arthur never liked to lie, not even to himself, and the longing that overwhelmed him far outweighed the fear.

He should like Merlin to stand close to him like that. To brush up against the knuckles of his hand. To look into his eyes in that same way, as if every word he said was precious and worth savouring.

And yet he was not that man. Arthur made to turn away, suddenly desperate that Merlin should not spy him. But he had looked too long and Morgana had noticed.

“Is that a friend of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur said vaguely. “I think perhaps not…”

But Morgana had already left his side to approach them.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said gaily, without a care in the world for propriety. Arthur had to hasten to her side to avoid any further lapses in decorum.

“Arthur!” Merlin said, surprised. Arthur noticed that he took a pronounced step back from his companion.

“So you do know each other!” Morgana said triumphantly. “Arthur wasn’t sure. You know how he is without his spectacles on.”

Merlin was looking straight at Morgana and his expression was unreadable.

“Good evening, madam,” he said at last, appearing to remember himself. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Morgana Le Fay,” she replied, offering her hand.

“Charmed,” he said, accepting it delicately. “I am Merlin Emrys and this is my friend Lance Lakewood.”

“Oh, not _the_ Lance Lakewood, surely?” Morgana said, turning eager eyes on the other man.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” the man said, with a self-deprecating bow.

Arthur knew who Lance Lakewood was. An increasingly celebrated poet whose latest book had become the talk of town, well received by critics and the public alike. It was especially popular with ladies; particularly the love poems contained therein. Arthur himself had quite admired it, although found it a tad florid at times.

He liked it rather less after having seen the way Merlin was looking at Lance not moments before.

“Oh how exciting!” Morgana said. “Arthur always tells me of his meetings with poets and artists and I’ve been fairly green with envy. I’m glad to finally make the acquaintance of one myself, especially one so talented.”

“You’re too kind,” Lance said, bowing again. “My efforts are humble indeed.”

He turned to Arthur.

“May I presume I have the good fortune of meeting Arthur Pendragon?”

“Good fortune!” Morgana said with a tinkly laugh and Arthur glared at her.

“I very much enjoyed your book,” he said, shaking Lance’s hand. “You must come over to the club sometime.”

“I would be honoured,” Lance said. “The company you keep seems most intriguing.”

“Yes, quite,” said Arthur distractedly. Merlin was looking away slightly, a faint blush rising in his cheeks.

“Merlin tells me you’ve helped him a great deal with his publications,” Lance said.

“He’s a very accomplished writer,” Arthur said honestly. Merlin met his eyes then and smiled.

Arthur wished all such smiles could be directed at him. He couldn’t help the twinge of resentment he felt when Lance gave Merlin a proud nod. Who was he to take credit for Merlin’s success? Where had he been when Merlin couldn’t sell so much as a pamphlet?

Such thoughts were petty, he knew, but he couldn’t help them.

“So what did you think of the play?” Morgana said.

“Oh yes, terribly good,” Lance said earnestly. “The poor girl’s death was most piteous.”

“I thought it rather sentimental myself,” Arthur said, perhaps a little too sharply. But when he caught Merlin’s eye, his friend’s expression was tinged with amusement.

“That’s just what I said.”

Lance raised his eyes to heaven.

“Merlin, you are incorrigible. Miss Le Fay, I’m sure you will take my side?”

“I will indeed,” Morgana said merrily. “These two gentlemen are quite heartless.”

“Oh mercy!” Merlin said suddenly in a high pitched voice, a very good imitation of the actress at the moment of her demise. “Oh mercy, mercy me!”

Lance looked faintly puzzled but Arthur laughed loudly.

“Perhaps you should tread the boards yourself, Merlin?”

“A Kemble for the new age,” Morgana announced approvingly. Merlin half-smiled but Arthur noted how his eyes did not meet Morgana’s.

Suddenly awkward again, Arthur coughed.

“We must call a carriage. I hope I will see you at the club sometime, Mr Lakewood.”

“Lance, please,” the man said, bowing a little.

Morgana looked at Arthur slightly askance, as though she would rather stay and converse further. But she made her goodbyes, extracting promises out of both Lance and Merlin that she might see them again soon.

Merlin gave Arthur a nod but his face was still a little drawn. Clearly it had been an uneasy encounter for both of them.

Arthur couldn’t help but look back as he reached the theatre door. Lance had turned away but Merlin was staring straight at him and Arthur could not quite read the expression on his face.

He had the urge to return for a moment but he suppressed it; hurrying out into the night air and straight into a waiting carriage. Morgana chattered about Merlin and Lance all the way home and did not seem to notice that Arthur didn’t say a word.

 

***

 

The world felt heavy again.

In twenty seven years of life, Merlin had not yet found a better way to describe it. The air around him would grow thick, like something to be waded through, and his feet would begin to list and drag as he moved through the cobbled streets of Bloomsbury. His mind would drag too; as sluggish and slow as a wasp out of season.

It had been happening for a long time, this sudden faltering. Since the age of nineteen Merlin had found himself plagued by periods of mental disquiet. There was seemingly no rhyme or reason for its occurrence, and he never could predict when another such period was coming.

Melancholy, his friend William called it. William’s mother had suffered from the same. Merlin had no such reference point in his own life. He could only trace his affliction through the books he read, the poems he pored over late at night. When he read Ode to a Nightingale for the first time, it was as though a hand reached out through the darkness and took his own. And yet even its power diminished the longer his sadness continued. He could find small comforts in the words of others but late at night in his own narrow bed, there was no solace to be found.

It was not that he suffered a surfeit of feeling; rather he suffered a lack of it. When the heavy times came around, Merlin’s world felt dull and far away. He did not feel the urge to cry or gnash his teeth in despair; he did not feel the urge to do anything. He would simply sit for hours at a time, quite still and silent, neglecting to bathe or eat. Then his obligations would press in and he would rouse himself to his duties – with that same sense of detachment that he could not shake.

William was helpful in these times. He was the only one who knew the full extent of Merlin’s mental unrest, although Merlin could not confide all even to him.

He did not know how William would feel about his love of men, for example.

Curiously enough, Merlin had never felt his preferences were part of his affliction. He knew society deemed it to be so but he had never believed that. Perhaps the one good aspect of his melancholy was that it threw the other elements of his life into sharp relief. He knew what true anguish felt like, true shame about one’s state of being. Compared to that his feelings for Lance, for others before him, brought him no guilt at all.

Perhaps that made Merlin immoral. Frankly he didn’t care. If there was anything to feel guilty about…

It was the fact that he was with Lance and he could not stop thinking of Arthur.

His feelings for Arthur had come on slowly. He started as an acquaintance, and then a friend, and then a dear friend, and now… Now Merlin was in trouble. He had no evidence that Arthur was inclined that way, and it didn’t matter if he was. Merlin was in love with Lance, he shouldn’t even be considering anyone else.

But it was hard to shake Arthur’s beauty from his head. His wit, his easy grace, his warmth and conviviality. His enormous generosity of spirit – always ready to take one more struggling writer under his wing, to stake his reputation on the books he believed in.

Merlin always felt renewed after meeting with Arthur, even if it was one of the heavy times. There was something about the other man that felt invigorating. He made Merlin want to write and little else did nowadays. Arthur was an inspiration simply by existing.

He came back from one such jaunt on the Heath with a head full of ideas, sparked from casual conversation with Arthur. He was entirely distracted at dinner with Lance, words and concepts still dancing through his mind. Lance didn’t seem to notice, he had spent the week with Gwen, archiving his library. Merlin had suggested Gwen for the job, he could think of no one more clever and meticulous than his dear friend – and she was in need of some money. It seemed to be working out very well.

“Her help has been truly invaluable,” Lance enthused. “I have never met a lady so keen-witted and proficient.”

“She’s a wonder,” Merlin agreed, only half listening.

Perhaps if he followed the mythical theme a little further in his writing. A contemporary Narcissus perhaps, some kind of Soho dandy who falls prey to-

“Merlin?”

Merlin jumped guiltily.

“Yes?”

“I was just saying that I’ve asked Gwen to stay and help me a little longer.”

Lance smiled.

“You are tired. Perhaps you should go back to your own lodgings tonight?”

“Perhaps,” Merlin agreed, grateful for the excuse. He wanted to write, or at least to plan, and somehow that was hard to do with Lance around.

He intended to spend the next day completely alone, to focus on his work. But when Arthur sent a message asking to drop by in the afternoon, Merlin couldn’t help but say yes.

When Arthur arrived, Merlin was sorting through some papers and books Arthur had lent to him. He had given Merlin a sheaf of poems the week before from his own personal collection, acquired from writers and editors in his acquaintance. Some were in pamphlet form, some not yet published. They varied in quality although generally Merlin found Arthur’s taste was very similar to his own.

Arthur smiled when he saw them in Merlin’s hand.

“How did you like them?”

“Very good. The river poems reminded me of Wordsworth at his least declarative. And I was very impressed with the Gerard Manley Hopkins.”

Merlin had been taken aback by the few poems of his included. One in particular had captured his attention; he had reread it several times a day since and remained a little in awe of its construction.

“Ah yes,” Arthur mused. “Unpublished, and set to remain that way unfortunately. He’s a Jesuit, you see, and apparently thinks poetry rather ungodly. I had to wrestle those poems from Robert Bridges after he described their beauty to me.”

“And were you impressed?”

Arthur paused.

“I… I found him rather obtuse, actually.”

“He is obtuse,” Merlin said, feeling oddly protective. “But he’s… sometimes a poem only needs one line to make it live. And all of his poetry is alive.”

Arthur arched one eyebrow, as if in challenge. Merlin raised his chin.

“As kingfishers catch fire,” he quoted, closing his hands around the papers. “dragonflies draw flame; as tumbled over rim in roundy wells, stones ring… like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's, bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name. Each mortal thing does one thing and the same.”

He trailed off then, suddenly feeling exposed.

“Well, it’s…”

He coughed awkwardly.

“No. I see. I see what you mean,” Arthur said and his face was intent.

He stood and walked towards Merlin.

“Like a spool of thread, woven through the fabric of time until all his joys drew together; a dappled tapestry of a life well-lived.”

Merlin’s stomach fluttered and he felt his face grow hot.

“That’s mine,” he stammered, a little foolishly.

Arthur smiled.

“Yes. Your work is always alive, to me.”

He reached out his hand, brushing against Merlin’s fingers.

“I think I shall give Hopkins another try,” he said and gently took the sheaf of papers from Merlin’s hand.

Merlin closed his fingers around his palm, wanting to preserve the memory of that touch. He felt as though he could compose an epic in a single night, if only Arthur would stay and smile at him like that.

 

***

 

But after that he didn’t see Arthur for over a month; their respective obligations keeping them apart. And the next time they met…

Arthur was with a woman. A very beautiful woman by the name of Morgana, with a graceful bearing and a soft musical voice.

It was ridiculous to feel disappointed. Merlin had Lance after all. And there had been little chance that Arthur was one of Merlin’s own kind. The fact that he enjoyed Whitman and Rimbaud was proof of nothing. Morgana was presumably Arthur’s fiancée and from what Merlin could see they were very happy together. He wanted Arthur to be happy. There was little else he wanted more.

And yet his chest was tight as he watched the two of them walk away. Arthur looked back, just briefly, and Merlin tried to curve his lips into a smile; hoping that longing was not naked in his face.

His inspiration to write fled after that night; as though it had never come back. He locked himself away in his room for days on end, but all he could do was stare at the blank page before him. If his world felt heavy before, now it felt crushing. A great weight pressing down on him, constricting his breath and suffocating his mind.

He became snappish and short with Lance. Hurt, his partner retreated further into the archiving task with Gwen and Merlin was glad of it. He couldn’t confide in Lance about the way he felt – he had never been able to. William was still the only one he could talk to – and Merlin had been avoiding him too. William had left several messages at the house asking to meet him but Merlin had written to put him off each time. He didn’t have the energy to face his old friend right now, nor to be truthful with him. There was no remedy to the way he felt, so what was the good of burdening others with it?

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming.

Lance had not been by to stay in a while and they’d only had time to meet once in the whole preceding week. So when Merlin returned home to find Lance sitting on his bed, he’d been surprised.

“I thought we were suppering at Gentle’s,” he said, dropping a peck onto Lance’s cheek. “Am I late?”

He felt a sudden rush of guilt. He had neglected Lance recently, caught up in his own misery. Lance deserved better. Merlin would try to make more of an effort; he would spend tonight lavishing his paramour with affection.

“You’re not late,” Lance said quietly. “I’ve been sat here since… since three o’ clock today.”

“Have you?”

“I had to come,” Lance said, as though Merlin had not spoken. “I had to come as soon as it happened.”

“As soon as what happened?”

Merlin was feeling a little sick now. Lance’s face was so serious and intent, his eyes dark and hooded.

“I had to come,” Lance repeated. “To tell you the truth. To tell you that…”

He looked up and his eyes were filled with tears.

“Merlin, I kissed Gwen.”

For a moment Merlin’s knees wobbled, like they might buckle beneath him.

“That’s… that’s…”

He passed a shaky hand across his brow and tried to breathe.

“It doesn’t have to mean…” he said unsteadily. “A moment of weakness… I can forgive…”

“No, Merlin,” Lance said, solemn and still. “I think I… I think I love-”

Merlin felt faint. It was a mistake, it had to be. He had been inattentive recently and Lance had been lonely. This was just a lapse, easily remedied. All Merlin had to do was promise to be more present, more demonstrative, and surely things could go back to the way they were before…

He didn’t realise he had spoken much of that out loud until he saw Lance shake his head.

“It’s not your fault. Please, Merlin, it’s nothing you’ve done. It’s my transgression, my shame. I cannot lie to you about the way I feel…”

Merlin felt cold, like a chill was setting into his bones. He drew away from Lance, turned towards the window.

“Please leave,” he said, and his voice was flat and grey.

“I’m so sorry…”

“Leave,” Merlin said, looking out at the darkening sky.

He heard the click of the door behind him and then he was alone.

 

***

 

Merlin… stopped. The world around him continued to move but he did not. He went to bed an hour after Lance left and he stayed there for three days. He drank a little water and wine, ate nothing, and spent the hours he was not sleeping simply staring into space.

On the fourth day, his landlady came and shouted at the door about how his friend William was calling round at all hours. How this was a respectable place and if he didn’t keep his rabble rousing companions away, she’d throw him out on the streets.

He rose then and went to the door. Her lip curled and he was suddenly conscious that he was unshaven, that he was still dressed in the same clothes he wore three days ago.

“I will tell him to stay away,” he said, in as steady a voice as he could manage. He hoped that would be an end to it but her eyes narrowed as she regarded him.

“That’s not the only thing, _Mister_ Emrys. I’m afraid the rent on your room’s gone up. Two more shillings a week.”

He gaped at her.

“That’s preposterous.”

She sneered.

“Times is hard. I ain’t running a pauper house. Pay up or move out.”

“I cannot pay,” Merlin said, face white.

He knew from the look of triumph on her face that this is what she had wanted all along.

“Then begone by Monday. You can move in with one of them _men_ what come ‘round here at all hours.”

He almost begged but his pride would not let him. She had wanted him gone for a long time. She had seen Lance coming and going and had known what it meant.

He shut the door in her face, returned to the bed. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t go to William; his friend had only a bed in a house and no money to spare. Lance or Gwen could have lent him some but he could not bear to see them right now, let alone ask it of them. And his mother was days away in France taking the cure, he could never reach her in time.

That only left Arthur. But Merlin was loath to throw himself on Arthur’s mercy, to appear so weak and pathetic in the eyes of the man he lo-

Yet there was no remedy for it. Mechanically Merlin began to pack up his things. He needed to get to Arthur’s before nightfall.

 

Arthur looked shocked to see him and Merlin didn’t know if it was due to his unexpected visit, or his current appearance. He knew he was dishevelled and he wished now he had taken the time to bathe before he came.

“Merlin!”

Without a pause, Arthur gestured him inside.

“This is a surprise. A pleasant one of course!”

Merlin let Arthur lead him into the parlour and offer him a seat. He perched uneasily, conscious of how grimy he was from the walk over.

“Drink?” Arthur said, already approaching the cabinet. “I feel a toast is in order. Why I haven’t seen you since…”

The memory of when they had last met seemed to strike Arthur at the same time as it struck Merlin. Arthur blushed, hands faltering a little on the brandy.

“The theatre,” he continued bravely. “That awful melodrama. Perhaps we both needed some time to recover.”

Merlin did not quite know why Arthur was embarrassed; it was he who had let his feelings show all too well on that night. Perhaps that was why Arthur blushed. Mortified at the thought that Merlin could harbour such feelings towards him.

Merlin bowed his head, accepting the proffered glass in trembling fingers.

“Yes, it was dreadful,” he said, trying to sound light. “I… I’m sorry that I didn’t come sooner. I know you sent messages…”

Arthur took a seat opposite him, waving his hand.

“It is of no matter. I am glad to see you now.”

He gave Merlin a searching look.

“Is this… er, a social call?”

Merlin took a fortifying sip of the brandy.

“No,” he admitted. “I… I have been summarily evicted from my lodgings and found myself with nowhere to go.”

Arthur’s face fell.

“I am so sorry.”

“As am I. I do not come here for charity, Arthur,” Merlin said, raising a hand to forestall his friend’s generous spirit. “I had hoped, perhaps, some kind of sum towards my next novel…”

He heard the foolishness of it outside of his own head. There was no new novel. He’d scarcely written a word.

Arthur knew too, and the sympathy on his face was painful to behold.

“Have you finished it?” He asked quietly.

“No, but…”

Merlin fisted his free hand in his lap.

“Just a little more time,” he said, almost pleading.

Arthur cleared his throat.

“I will… I will talk to Lady Annis tomorrow. See what can be done.”

He could see from Arthur’s face that no money would be forthcoming from her. Merlin was out of favour with his patron and quite rightly. He had stopped being able to attend her dinners and outings when the melancholy took hold, and he knew she was not a patient woman.

“Until then, you will stay with me, of course,” Arthur said.

Merlin was too exhausted to protest, even for politeness’ sake.

“I should be very grateful,” he said tiredly.

 

Alone in the bathroom later that evening, Merlin picked up the razor that Arthur had lent to him. He needed to shave, to present a face fit for polite society again. Or at least a facsimile of it. Merlin hoped that Arthur would not expect too much of him over the coming days. He felt an abiding weariness in his bones and all he wanted was to rest a while longer.

Arthur was worried about him, Merlin could tell. Shame lapped at him. He had brought his troubles to someone else’s door. Arthur didn’t deserve to take on a share in Merlin’s misery.

His hand slipped a little in his contemplating and there was a sharp pain on his chin. Merlin watched as a thin red line formed on his damp skin, one small drip breaking free to trickle down his neck.

His world narrowed to a point. All he could see was that bright red droplet, the only colour in his vision.

What if his hand slipped again? With greater purpose this time? A way out of all this exhaustion, this misery…

It was a mortal sin. But so was taking pleasure with other men. Merlin was already hell-bound. And he was not sure he believed there was a hell out there greater than the one of his own making here on earth.

Merlin drew the razor to the centre of his throat, angling it straight. Just one quick push of his hand…

“Merlin?”

Merlin startled, dropping the razor into the sink.

“Dinner has been brought up,” Arthur called. “Come when you’re ready.”

“I will,” Merlin replied, guiltily fumbling to replace the razor on the side.

A momentary madness. He would not let that happen again.

 

Merlin slept poorly that night. Arthur took one look at him in the morning and advised him to return to bed.

“I have some errands to complete, in any case,” he said. “You may as well rest until I return.”

The concern on Arthur’s face had felt shaming the night before but Merlin took some comfort in it now. He couldn’t deny that it was nice to be in a warm, clean house with a sumptuous breakfast laid out on the table. His heart was still heavy but perhaps with a few more days of recuperation…

Arthur’s next words took the wind out of his sails.

“And of course Morgana arrives tomorrow. She’ll be delighted to see you again; we’ve talked of you often since the theatre.”

Merlin’s stomach sank and he replaced his cup of tea on the saucer, no longer thirsty. Morgana was coming. Arthur was not his, not at all. He belonged to someone else and Merlin had almost forgotten that, growing cosy in the comforts of this beautiful house.

Such a beautiful house was not meant for him. This house, this world, belonged to those like Morgana; the strong and hearty ones. People like Merlin were not built to last.

“I think I will go to rest, as you have suggested,” he said, voice strained.

Arthur looked a little puzzled at Merlin’s abruptness but he nodded.

“Sleep well,” he said and Merlin took a moment to cherish his face as he rose from the table. Arthur’s eyes were still a little soft with sleep and his hair was rumpled at the back. He was breath-taking; a revelation. Merlin was lucky to have known him, even if for a short while.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, with the utmost sincerity. “Thank you for everything.”

And then he left the room.

 

***

 

Arthur felt strange the moment he stepped out onto the street. A nagging feeling, like he had left something behind. He checked his pockets, nothing was out of place. He was only making a few social calls anyway, there was nothing he _needed_.

What was it? Something he wanted from the house, something that couldn’t wait. Something to go back for.

Merlin’s face flashed in his mind, that strange sombre look he had given Arthur at breakfast.

Was Merlin what he needed to go back for?

It was ridiculous but Arthur couldn’t shake it from his head. His fears had been growing in the long weeks he hadn’t heard from Merlin and they had not been ameliorated by Merlin’s arrival last night. His friend had looked so pale, so thin and insubstantial that a stiff breeze could blow him away. It was not just his appearance that provoked Arthur’s concern; his entire manner and bearing was fragile, like he could shatter at any moment.

Arthur had not asked why Merlin could not go to Lance. A small petty part of him was glad that Merlin had chosen to come to Arthur first, but it was drowned out by the chorus of worry that told him something was very wrong.

He had told himself he was over-reacting. Merlin had suffered a shock, after all, the loss of his lodgings in such a way. And yes, his writing hadn’t been going well, but his fortunes would surely reverse soon. Arthur had complete faith in Merlin’s ability to author another work of beauty. He just needed peace and quiet.

Arthur was more than happy to give it to him. Merlin could stay as long as he liked. Arthur would furnish him with all the time and space he needed to begin writing again.

He had noted how Merlin’s face had fallen when he mentioned Morgana, however. Arthur loved his sister but he knew her to be a little overbearing, something Merlin had probably noticed at the theatre. He had been considering putting off her visit since breakfast. Merlin was in a delicate state right now and overexcitement would do him no good.

He resolved to tell Merlin of his plan when he returned home that evening. Then his friend could relax in the knowledge that no visitors would be coming to disturb his peace.

Perhaps…

Arthur could tell him now. No time like the present. If he could please Merlin and quell his own rising nerves at the same time, that would be for the best.

Arthur turned on his heel and set back towards his house. He had only gone a few paces and his housekeeper was surprised to see him back. Arthur padded up the stairs softly, he wouldn’t wake Merlin if he had already gone back to sleep. But he would at least put his head around the door, to check that all was well. It was a foolish notion but it would set his mind at rest.

Only Merlin wasn’t in the guest room. Arthur frowned and looked in his own room but there was no sign of him. He searched the whole house and came to the closed door of the bathroom.

There was no lock but Merlin might be bathing and that would be an awkward situation all round. Arthur rapped lightly on the door instead.

“Merlin? Are you in the bath?”

No answer came.

“I forgot my… ah, pocket watch. I thought since I was back I might ask you if… Merlin?”

There was only silence from behind the door, not even the sound of water running.

“Merlin?” Arthur said again, an unexplainable anxiety rising in his throat. “Are you alright?”

Nothing. Arthur’s pulse had begun to race.

“I’m coming in now,” he said strongly, grasping the door handle. “Merlin, I’m coming in, I’m-”

The words died on his lips. Merlin was sprawled out on the floor, a razor clutched loosely in his hand. His other hand was…

A mass of blood. For a frozen moment Arthur couldn’t pinpoint the source of the bleeding and then he saw the gape in Merlin’s wrist. He was across the room before he realised it, whipping off his jacket to press down on Merlin’s arm, to try and stem the gush before any more precious blood was lost.

The floor was sticky with it. It soaked into Arthur’s knees, stained his shirt as he gathered Merlin up into his arms. It took him a few tries to get to his feet, to lift Merlin and keep the pressure on his wrist at the same time.

He wrapped his jacket clumsily around it in the end and then stumbled out to the stairs. Merlin hardly weighed anything at all, it was like carrying Mordred. A child in his arms, one he had failed to protect.

“Mrs Hilde!” he shouted out, hysterically. “A carriage! I need a carriage!”

His housekeeper must have heard the panic in his voice because she ran straight out into the street and he followed as fast as he could. Merlin’s head was lolling against Arthur’s chest, his eyes were closed. Had he already gone? Was Arthur too late?

No. Arthur couldn’t believe that right now. He hurled himself through the open door and down onto the street, where Mrs Hilde had managed to flag a hansom cab down. He climbed into the back seat without delay, propping Merlin up against him.

“Go!” He snarled behind him and the driver baulked.

“Steady on! ‘Ee’s bleeding all over my cab!”

“I will pay you the price of this cab and over if you get me to a hospital,” Arthur growled and his frantic tone seemed to reach the man. He whipped the horse to a canter and the cab pulled away.

Arthur turned his attention back to Merlin, still inert and pale in his lap. With shaky fingers Arthur fumbled for Merlin’s pulse, pressing down on his milk white throat.

An agonising second passed and then Arthur felt it. Faint and weak but still undeniably there.

Arthur could have sobbed for relief. As it was he wrapped his jacket even tighter round Merlin’s wrist and urged the driver on.

Merlin’s eyelids were fluttering slightly and Arthur hugged him closer.

“Stay with me,” he said desperately. “Don’t leave. I need you, Merlin. Please don’t die.”

He could only repeat those words, over and over, in the hope that Merlin could somehow hear them.

 

***

 

Arthur was left to wait alone at the hospital. He sent word to Morgana and then walked back to his cold bench in the empty corridor.

His shirt was covered in blood. Arthur stared down at it for so long that the pattern began to distort before his eyes, until all he could see was red and white.

He was not aware that he was crying until Morgana arrived and took him in her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed, shock and fear giving way to undeniable grief.

“’Gana, he tried to… he tried to…”

“Hush, I know. I know, pup.”

Morgana held him fast, her arms strong and steady. He continued to cry for quite some time and she just stroked his hair and murmured soothing words into his ear. When there were no tears left in him, she wiped his face with her handkerchief and sat him back down.

“They haven’t told me anything, ‘Gana. Is it because… is he dead? Is that why?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet,” Morgana said, drawing his head to rest on her shoulder. “I’m sure the doctor will be along soon to-”

There was a commotion at the end of the hall and they both started as a stocky man burst into view, followed by two nurses.

“Where is he? I want to see him, damnit!”

“The doctor will be here in a minute, Mr Vaughn. Until then you must calm down and be seated.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down!” the man roared and Arthur flinched at hearing such language in the presence of ladies. “No one’s told me anything! I went to find him today and I have to hear from someone’s housekeeper that he’s been rushed away covered in blood, and I want to Goddamn know why he-”

“Mr Vaughn, you will control yourself!” a new voice came. It was the ward matron, hurrying forward. “This is a place of rest for sick people and your foul language is not conducive to their healing. Be quiet or I will have you removed.”

The man subsided at that, looking slightly abashed.

“I just want someone to tell me something,” he mumbled, and suddenly he looked a lot younger than before.

Arthur stood up.

“Are you looking for Merlin Emrys?” he said, voice still not steady.

The man turned sharply.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“My name is Arthur Pendragon. He’s been staying with me. I think it was my housekeeper you spoke to…”

The man was already striding down the hall.

“What happened?”

“He… he…”

Arthur didn’t know how to answer. He choked on dry air and Morgana stepped forward.

“It seems Merlin made an attempt on his own life,” she said gently.

All the colour drained out of the man’s face.

“No,” he whispered, and then shook his head vigorously. “He promised me he never would.”

“Promised you? Has he… was he ill before?” Morgana asked delicately. Arthur clung hard onto her hand, fearing the answer.

“He was… he’s always been… melancholic.”

From the look on the man’s face, this was something of an understatement. Arthur didn’t really understand, in any case. Melancholy was a passing mood, surely? He would describe Keats or Coleridge as melancholic at times. It didn’t mean that a person would try to…

Arthur felt bile rising in his throat. Had something been terribly wrong with Merlin, all this time? Something that Arthur had never noticed?  

He had not thought he could feel any more terrible than he already did.

Then a door open to their right and all three of them turned. A doctor strode towards them.

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr Gilly. Which of you is Mr Pendragon?”

“He is but I’m William Vaughn,” the other man cut in. “I’m Merlin’s friend; I’ve known him all his life. Anything you have to say, you can say to me.”

The doctor nodded.

“Very well. May I ask that you both come with me?”

Morgana stood but the doctor bowed apologetically to her.

“I’m afraid it is not a suitable conversation for a lady to partake in.”

“At least tell me that he will live?” Morgana pleaded.

“Yes, he will live,” the doctor said and Arthur’s knees almost gave way in relief.

William looked much the same, a little colour finally returning to his face. He made no more comment as they followed the doctor into a private room, but once the door was closed he turned on him.

“How have you treated him?”

“We’ve stitched the wound in his wrist,” the doctor said calmly. “The blood loss was severe but not irreparable. He will be in pain and the scar will be bad, but he will recover.”

He paused.

“The physical effects are not what I wished to speak to you about. I am more interested in the mental fervour that led Mr Emrys to this action.”

“He doesn’t have a mental fervour,” William snapped. “He gets a touch of the melancholy, that’s all. It doesn’t last that long. I take care of him, bring him round again.”

“Not this time,” Dr Gilly said mildly and William looked furious.

“I didn’t know where he was! This never would have happened if he hadn’t gone to stay with you,” he said, suddenly rounding on Arthur.

“I… I didn’t know…” Arthur said weakly and the doctor interrupted.

“No one is at fault here, Mr Vaughn. I am not looking to point the finger of blame. I am looking to help your friend recover.”

“Yeah? How?”

“I think Mr Emrys would benefit from treatment in an asylum.”

“Asylum? You’re not locking him up with a load of lunatics and leaving him to rot,” William said belligerently.

Arthur objected to William’s tone, but he could not deny that his own heart was racing. Gentle Merlin, in an asylum? Asylums were hellish places by all accounts; where the imbecilic resided alongside the dangerous; where beatings and restraints were commonplace as means of control.

Not his Merlin. He would never allow it.

“He will not be left to rot,” Dr Gilly said firmly. “The asylum I’m talking about is one in York-”

“York Asylum! That’s one of the worst!”

William looked outraged.

“I read about it. They were kept chained up all day, living in their own filth. They were whipped and starved and-”

“That is not the asylum I am referring to, Mr Vaughn,” the doctor said in an even tone. “I speak of a Quaker Retreat on the outskirts of York where they practice a moral treatment. They do not use restraints as a rule and they do not condone physical punishment.”

Arthur’s heart calmed a little to hear it, although William still looked suspicious.

“How will they help him any better than I would then?”

“Mr Emrys needs balance to recover. The Retreat has grounds for walking and the fresh air will be of great benefit to him. He also needs distraction and they will provide labour for him in the day. Nothing strenuous but something physical to restore his strength. The doctors there are skilled in blood-letting too; regular bleedings will ease his mental aggravation considerably.”

There was a silence as William digested this. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Will he be straightjacketed?” he asked quietly.

A sudden image had come into his head of Merlin; alone and restrained in a cold stone cell, pale and small. He could not bear Merlin to be subject to such treatment.

“Likely not,” Dr Gilly reassured him. “They are used only for the most recalcitrant and Mr Emrys does not seem prone to violence or raving.”

“He isn’t,” Arthur answered. He believed Merlin could never be violent. The only one he had ever been a danger to was himself.

“How can we trust you?” William said but his tone was more weary than aggressive now.

“It’s not a prison,” the doctor said. “You will be able to visit Mr Emrys yourself, if you happen to be in the area.”

“I will be,” Arthur said instantly. He already knew that he would be taking up lodgings in York if Merlin was sent there.

“As will I,” William said, shooting a defiant glance at Arthur. “I have an uncle there to stay with.”

The doctor bowed his head.

“It seems we have reached a sensible solution.”

He coughed discreetly.

“I hope you understand there will be a fee for Mr Emrys’ convalescence…”

“I’ll pay it,” Arthur said. William looked over appraisingly and then gave him a grudging nod of acceptance.

“Very well,” Dr Gilly said. “I’d be happy to inform Mr Emrys of our decision if you prefer?”

“No,” William said stoutly. “It’s better coming from me.”

Then he glanced at Arthur.

“From us,” he amended, and then strode out of the room like he expected Arthur to follow.

After an apologetic nod to the doctor, Arthur did. Morgana was waiting anxiously outside and he stopped to talk to her whilst William went on ahead. As keen as he was to see Merlin with his own eyes, he couldn’t leave his sister in the dark. Briefly as possible, Arthur told her of their plan.

“Do you think it’s the right thing to do?” he asked when he had finished. He wasn’t sure himself, even now, and he had always valued his sister’s opinion.

“Yes,” Morgana said unhesitatingly. “I have read of the moral treatment; it seems a humane practice that Merlin may well thrive under. And we will be there to support him.”

“We?”

“I’m coming with you, of course. Mordred’s away at school now and I shall have nothing to do for the next few months. Father will be most relieved to see the back of me.”

“But what will you say to him?” Arthur said, already weak with relief. He didn’t want to face this on his own.

“Oh, that I’m taking the air up north. Heaven knows London is polluted enough that he can’t object to that. I shall tell him we’re renting a nice cottage together so I can rest.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, hoping she saw how grateful he truly was.

Morgana reached out to touch his arm.

“We’ll see Merlin well again, pup, don’t you worry.”

The moment was interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming from down the hallway. Arthur frowned and Morgana motioned him to go on ahead.

When he reached the room William had disappeared into, the voices had grown louder.

“I told you to come to me!” William was shouting. “I’ve been looking all over London for you! I was petrified and then today I have to hear from a total stranger that you’ve gone and-”

William’s voice cracked and Arthur chose that moment to step into the room. His gaze immediately went to the bed where a figure was propped up, pale and bandaged and trembling but-

Alive.

Merlin was alive.

Arthur wondered if he hadn’t believed it until now. But there he was and Arthur breathed freely for the first time since he had opened the bathroom door all those hours ago.

Merlin’s gaze immediately went to him and Arthur didn’t think twice before crossing the room and seating himself beside the bed.

“Hello,” he said softly and Merlin’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m so sorry.”

His face was phantom white and his lips were cracked and scabbed. Arthur wondered if Merlin had chewed on them as they stitched his wrist back together. He hoped not. He hoped Merlin was unconscious for that part and had not felt the pain.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” he said, at pains to be gentle. “No one is angry with you.”

William coughed and Arthur quelled him with a look. Now was not the time to remonstrate with Merlin; he was far too fragile for that.

Merlin leaned into Arthur as though telling him a secret.

“Please take me home,” he whispered.

Arthur’s heart broke.

“I… I will, Merlin. But first…”

He paused, unable to find the words.

“There is a… place of recovery that the doctor recommended. In York. We thought you might go for a while and receive treatment.”

“A place of recovery?” Merlin repeated slowly, and then his eyes turned wide and fearful. “An asylum?”

“Not like you think-” Arthur said quickly but Merlin was already sitting forward in a panic.

“No Arthur please, don’t put me in one of those places! I swear I’ll be good, please don’t lock me up!”

“No one’s locking you up,” Arthur said desperately, sick to his stomach at the terror in Merlin’s eyes. “It’s an enlightened place. No restraints, no punishments…”

It seemed to fall on deaf ears. Merlin was crying in earnest now, frail shoulders shaking.

“Please don’t lock me up,” he wept. “They’ll beat me, Arthur, they’ll chain me to the bed…”

“No, no,” Arthur said, almost crying himself. “I would never send you to a place like that. It’s a Quaker retreat, Merlin; you can go out walking, you can be independent. And I’ll be there; William and I will come and see you all the time…”

“Every day, if you want,” William said, voice no longer angry.

“T-they’ll never let me out,” Merlin said between sobs and Arthur took his un-bandaged hand in anguish.

“They will because you’ll get better. You can get better, Merlin. And I think the Retreat is the best place to do it.”

Arthur rubbed Merlin’s cold fingers, trying to get some warmth back into them.

“We won’t make you go anywhere. Will we?”

William shook his head reluctantly.

“But we’re suggesting this because we want you to be well and cared for. Please at least consider it, Merlin.”

He massaged Merlin’s hand as his friend finally subsided. Tear streaked, he looked up at Arthur.

“I don’t know anyone in York,” he said in a small voice.

“You know William and I,” Arthur said. “We’ll be living nearby.”

“I can’t ask you to-”

“You didn’t ask,” William gruffly. “We want to.”

Merlin looked down at the sheet covering him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered at last.

“I know,” Arthur said, heart aching in his chest. “But we’re going to help you.”

Merlin sniffled a little, then nodded.

“You’ll come and visit?” he said.

“As often as we’re allowed,” Arthur reassured him.

“And if I hate it?”

“We’ll take you home,” Arthur said. “I promise.”

“What if they don’t let you?”

William snorted.

“I’d like to see them stop me. I’ll kidnap you if I have to.”

“I’ve only just made the acquaintance of your friend William but I believe that,” Arthur said, trying for levity. Merlin gave a tiny, watery smile.

“I… I…”

Then he nodded, once.

“Yes, then. I’ll go.”

And he squeezed Arthur’s hand tight.

 

***

 

Wednesday were gardening days. Merlin was in charge of weeding and trimming, as well as helping keep the vegetable patch tidy.

It was boring, repetitive work and yet Merlin found he did not mind it. He liked being out in the air, breathing in without feeling London smog fill up his lungs.

The sun was bright today. It had become summer without Merlin realising it. Not that time meant much to him here.

It wasn’t a cruel place, as Arthur had promised. No one whipped or beat him. He had never been chained up or held down. The people of York were not invited inside the asylum walls to jeer and laugh at him.

But it was a sad place. Sadness permeated the walls, hung heavy in the air. It followed him from room to room, and drifted to his ears at night along with the sound of crying.

The others cried, a lot. Some ranted and raved too, but that was less frequent. It was mostly tears and whimpers.

Merlin cried too, some nights. Curled into a ball on his bed, running his fingers over the jagged bumps of the scar on his wrist. Watching the sun rise through the flimsy drapes, thinking about the world beyond that he was no longer a part of.

The days were less bad. There was always activity, specially designed to tire him out. Sometimes the doctors talked to him about how he felt that day but mostly they left him be. The food was bland but filling. The rooms were always clean. He was not allowed to bathe on his own.

He found the letting of his blood ironic. Wasn’t that why he had been sent here in the first place? The doctor smiled a little when Merlin said this. They liked it when he made jokes. Or talked about poetry, or asked for a pen and paper, or behaved in any way _normal_.

Merlin did not feel normal. He still felt removed, at a distance, like he was watching his life from far away. But he also did not feel suicidal, not anymore. It was like the impulse had been momentarily sated; had ebbed out of him along with the blood he left on Arthur’s bathroom floor.

Arthur came regularly. He was not allowed to stay long but they usually had time for a walk around the grounds together. They talked of things of little consequence generally; literature, the weather, nature. They did not discuss the goings on of the outside world – politics or friends they knew. Merlin didn’t know if Arthur thought it would agitate him. He did not press the matter because he did not want to hear it. It was hard enough to imagine what he was missing out on locked in here.

Only he wasn’t locked in, not really. Quite the reverse in fact. Only the day before the doctor had told Merlin that they were thinking about releasing him. That he’d made a marked improvement in both behaviour and mood, and he was ready to rejoin society again.

The thought was unexpectedly terrifying. Merlin wasn’t sure society had a place for him anymore. Or that he was strong enough to try and find one.

He had brooded on the thought all night and the morning had brought further confusion. A letter from Lance. It was cautiously written; Lance would be aware that eyes before Merlin’s would have read it. All it said was that Lance would be staying in York at The Golden Fleece for the next few weeks and could he come and visit Merlin?

Merlin had pushed the letter into his pocket and tried to ignore the whirling of his stomach. He had not thought of Lance or Gwen in some time. They were remnants of his old life, the one that didn’t exist anymore.

Now in the garden he felt the urge to read it again. His hand was delving into his pocket when a figure appeared in his peripheral vision.

Arthur, he thought, and hurriedly tucked it away again.

Arthur greeted him cheerily, as he always did. It was as if he thought Merlin would crumble at the first hint of anything other than pleasantries.

“Good news,” he said. “I got special permission for us to take a walk. Not far, just down to the River Ouse.”

Merlin tensed. He hadn’t been out of the asylum in all his time here.

And yet, perhaps it was a good time to try. To see if he really was ready to leave.

He nodded and followed Arthur out. It felt strange to walk out of the gates, as though a doctor might come calling after him, but none did. He could not relax as he walked down the street with Arthur; fearing he would somehow be marked as a lunatic by the people they saw. He was wearing his own clothes, it was allowed in the Retreat, but he felt like they might be able to see it in his gait somehow.

Arthur talked calmly as they walked, seeming to sense Merlin’s anxiety. He was slightly more relaxed when they reached the river, the area was fairly deserted. They stopped to sit down on a bench and Merlin turned his face up to the sun, drinking in the rays.

“You always used to do that,” Arthur said softly, and Merlin was surprised to hear his usual light tone abandoned. “When we would walk out on the Heath.”

“I remember,” Merlin said. Those had been some of the happiest days of his life.

“For someone so pale, you love the sun,” Arthur said, and his tone was fond, wistful.

“I’ve missed it,” Merlin said simply, even if that didn’t make sense. The sun had shone down on the Retreat, after all. But it was not the same. He did not feel free there like he did now.

But freedom was an illusion and he suddenly couldn’t bear Arthur talking to him in this way, after so many months of banalities.

“Does Morgana enjoy the sun?” he asked abruptly.

Arthur looked a little surprised and shook his head.

“Not particularly. She prefers rain, she always did as a little girl.”

So they had known each other since childhood. Merlin hadn’t known, because he had deliberately never asked about her. He knew that Morgana was living here in York with Arthur, and he could not understand how propriety allowed it. Unless they were masquerading as a couple already married.

It was none of his business.

“I remember once we got caught in a rain storm when we were children,” Arthur said. “Stuck in the middle of a marsh with night starting to fall. They had to get the constabulary to rescue us.”

The affection was obvious in his tone. Merlin pursed his lips and looked away.

“Our father was so angry. He blamed me, of course, because I should have been looking after my sister. Never mind the fact that she was the one who led me there in the first place-”

“Sister?” Merlin said.

Arthur looked puzzled.

“Yes, I’m talking about Morgana.”

“Morgana’s your sister?”

 “Of course. What did you think?”

Merlin was too shocked to measure his words.

“I thought she was your fiancée,” he said bluntly and Arthur’s mouth dropped open.

“You-you thought-”

He laughed once, and then stopped short.

“Oh. You thought…”

“Yes,” Merlin said, chest tight. “I did.”

Arthur’s expression had turned very serious.

“I wish I had known. I would have corrected you sooner.”

Merlin couldn’t meet his gaze. What did this change? Nothing. He was still ill. Still an outcast from society. Still not worthy of Arthur.

“It might not have made a difference,” he said evasively.

“Are you sure?” Arthur said and suddenly he was very close to Merlin on the bench.

If Merlin turned now, they would be eye to eye. Noses almost touching. Lips only an inch apart.

Arthur sighed, sweet and soft.

“Merlin, I…”

And Merlin could not bear it. He got up from the bench and began to run.

 

***

 

Lancelot looked much the same as Merlin remembered him. Still handsome, still impeccably dressed; though perhaps the eyes were a little more lined than they had been before.

Merlin didn’t dare to wonder what he looked like. The Retreat had not been furnished with looking glasses and Merlin had been glad. Working out in the garden, hat on his head to keep the sun at bay, Merlin had felt as insubstantial as one of the scarecrows that dotted the fields nearby. He did not want to see his own hollow eyes in the mirror, his own pinched face and downturned mouth. It was bad enough he could not avoid seeing the scar on his wrist, red and jagged against the pallor of his skin. He felt Lance glance there now and he tugged his sleeve down a little.

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” Lance said, as if suddenly remembering himself. He stood aside to let Merlin enter, ushering him in.

The room was light but small and Merlin saw no signs of a woman’s touch about the place.

“I can call for some tea?” Lance asked but Merlin shook his head. He took a seat on the couch and Lance followed, gingerly sitting in the chair opposite.

“Merlin,” he said softly. “I am glad to see you. I did not think you would respond to my letter.”

Merlin found himself looking into Lance’s eyes; those deep pools of molten brown he’d lost himself in so many times before.

“I’m glad to see you too,” he said at last and it was true, but not in the way it once would have been. He did not feel that rush of lust or longing for Lance anymore. Affection remained but it felt curiously platonic now; as though the passing of time had softened his ardour into a milder sentiment.

Lance bit his lip.

“I owe you… many apologies,” he said intently. “I behaved with the utmost dishonour towards you and I do not hope to be forgiven for it. I cannot express how sorry I am for the hurt I visited upon you.”

His tone was sincere, as Merlin remembered it always was. It was even sincere the night he confessed his infidelity. Merlin knew that Lance must have spent the last few months consumed by guilt and shame for what he had done.

And for what? Lance and Gwen were perhaps much better suited than he and Lance had ever been. They seemed fated for each other. In the same way Merlin had hoped that Arthur was fated for him. Perhaps even hoped that still, in his weaker moments.

Lance’s head was bowed.

“Gwen and I have parted ways, Merlin. We could not bear what we had done to you. I hope you may find it in your heart to forgive her one day. She loves you dearly and I was the more to blame in this wretched affair.”

Merlin swallowed.

“I have forgiven her,” he said, his voice a little thick. “And I have forgiven you too, Lance.”

Lance looked up, as if in disbelief.

“You fell in love,” Merlin said, his voice gaining strength. “It was badly timed but not maliciously meant, I know that now. I do not wish you to cease contact on my account. That would bring me no satisfaction.”

Once upon a time it might have, in that first flush of heartbreak. But now Merlin had no anger left in him.

“But-” Lance started and Merlin held a hand up.

“One question, old friend. Do you love her?”

Lance looked agonised but Merlin knew he could not lie; he never had before.

“I do,” he said eventually.

“Then you should go to her,” Merlin said firmly. “With my blessing.”

“Merlin…”

“Love is not granted to all,” Merlin said quietly. “It is as much a gift as the birds in the sky or the first buds of spring, and sometimes we do not see it for what it is until it has gone.”

He took Lance’s hand, pressed a kiss to it.

“I would not see that happen to you, Lance. Go to her.”

Lance stood and enfolded Merlin in a fierce embrace.

“Thank you,” he gasped out against Merlin’s neck. “You are the truest friend I have ever known.”

He released Merlin and looked into his eyes.

“You’ll stay here tonight?”

Merlin nodded, suddenly weary. He hadn’t thought much beyond coming here.

“May I bathe?” he asked and Lance gestured towards a door across the room.

“Of course. I’ll ring for some tea.”

Merlin slipped into the bathroom and shut the heavy door behind him. Exhaustion hit him in a wave and he had to splash a little water on his face to revive himself.

He could stay here for a night but what next? Back to London, to his poky rooms and empty notebooks, the black-grey city at his window? Back to the asylum, to plant beans and sweep floors and wither away into old age?

Was there any place in the world that Merlin could call home now?

He cast his eyes downwards, overwhelmed, and something glinted by the sink.

Lance’s straight razor.

Merlin picked it up and held it to the light, tracing its cold gleam with his eyes.

He could go for the throat this time. One quick slash and it would all be over; the misery, the uncertainty, the longing for a life that he could never have.

Merlin climbed into the bath, holding the blade steady in front of him. He sat down in the centre and loosened his collar.

One quick slash.

The bath would catch most of the blood. It would be cruel for Lance to have to clean it up, otherwise. That was the mistake he had made last time, with Arthur.

Unbidden, a memory slipped into his head, one he’d quite forgotten until now. It was himself, already flayed by the sharp agony of one slit wrist, attempting to cut the other with a nerveless hand. Then through that fog of shock and pain, a voice calling his name. A body crouched beside him, touching his face, wrapping his wound. Being lifted in strong arms and carried out and into a carriage, his vision greying at the edges. Being cradled all the way to the hospital, held tight to someone’s body. A voice begging over and over “Please don’t die, Merlin. I need you. Please don’t die.”

Arthur.

He had been with Merlin all along.

Tears were falling down his face now, trickling into his collar. Merlin looked at the razor in his hand and saw his own face reflected back at him. There was no one to stop him now. If he wanted to end it all he could.

He should end it. He was weary of life, weary of repeating the same mistakes, of making the wrong choices. He couldn’t write; he had no words left in him. All he had was helpless, hopeless love. Love for a man who deserved more than to be dragged down into the mire by Merlin’s misery.

But Arthur had asked him not to die. Had carried him to the hospital, had paid for his convalescence. Had come to see him every day and talked patiently to him, no matter how angry or sad or silent Merlin had been.

It wasn’t enough to live for Arthur’s sake. He had to live for himself. But if he could become the man that Arthur thought he was, the man who was worth saving…

Could he live for himself? Could he find a way to start again?

Merlin didn’t know.

But he wanted to try. And that had to be enough.

He let the razor slip from his fingers, clatter harmlessly onto the floor. He rested his head against the wall and tried to slow his breathing.

It could not have been more than ten minutes before he heard voices outside and immediately knew that Arthur had come for him.

“Merlin? Merlin? For God’s sake, let me in!”

The door rattled vigorously, then gave way. Arthur burst into the room without waiting for a reply, eyes instantly seeking out Merlin.

Merlin hunched lower in the bath, legs drawn to his chin, eyes cast down. Arthur fell to his knees beside him and let out a juddering breath.

“Thank God you’re alright,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I thought… I thought…”

“I know,” Merlin said quietly. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’ve caused you so much pain.”

“No, Merlin, no,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I lived a half-life before you. I don’t care what’s happened since; I could never regret meeting you.”

Tears pricked at Merlin’s eyes again.

“But I’m-”

“Wonderful,” Arthur said fervently. “And good and kind and clever and a hundred other words beside. And I’m sorry you ever doubted my feelings on this matter. I’m sorry you thought Morgana was the one I chose. Because I could only ever choose you, Merlin. Do you understand that?”

Merlin let out a little sob.

“I would choose you too, Arthur,” he said, “if the choice were ever mine.”

Arthur started forward.

“Then we can-”

“Wait,” Merlin said, putting up his hand. “I… I need you to know.”

He looked into Arthur’s eyes.

“I might always be – unwell,” he said. “I might never get better.”

Arthur nodded.

“I do know. I want to be here anyway. If you’ll let me.”

He leaned across the bath, eyes bright with tears.

“Say you’ll let me, Merlin. Say you will.”

Merlin pulled in a deep breath, then reached out to touch Arthur’s cheek.

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

And without a thought for decorum Arthur climbed into the bath and took Merlin into his arms. He pressed a tender kiss to Merlin’s forehead and then another to his lips.

“I will,” Merlin said again, voice breaking.

I will love. I will live. I _will_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Please forgive the no doubt many anachronisms in this - for example, it's highly unlikely Arthur could have gotten a hold of any Hopkins poetry. The York Retreat [is real](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Retreat) however and still going to this day. 
> 
> Much as in ArgentSleeper's original fic, I would be remiss not to say here that help is available if you are suffering from suicidal thoughts or depression and I urge you to seek it out. Take care of yourselves <3


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